


dressed in gold, and rotting underneath

by lithalos



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 19:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13347504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lithalos/pseuds/lithalos
Summary: No matter how much gold he lacquered himself with, it would never cover the stench of something foul.





	dressed in gold, and rotting underneath

**Author's Note:**

> [Warnings for implied self harm,]
> 
> yep hi back on my bullshit have some angst because I'm apparently incapable of writing literally anything else

Akechi was well acquainted with death. With loss. It was impossible to be the untimely deliverance of it, to have stolen life from so many, without the morbid weight of it bearing down on his shoulders, oppressive and unyielding in its persistence. There were days when the pressure, the unwavering gravity of his actions, kept him staring at the bland white ceiling above his bed, unable to move. Unwilling to think.

Other days, the blood on his hands had the opposite effect; project after project, he'd consume them all without a second thought and the vain desire to bury his grave mistakes in glittering accomplishments. A lot like gilding a rotting corpse, honestly—no matter how much gold he lacquered himself with, it would never cover the stench of something foul. Something unwanted.

And he'd claw at his bloodied, gilded hands, tear at them until they were raw and sticky and dripping, mixing the sickening past with his poisoned present. The overwhelming urge to rip the skin, the blood, the bone, the gold, from his tainted hands was intoxicating and nauseating in its intensity. It was almost a cruel irony when he’d found a slick pair of black leather gloves neatly placed on his desk and a pitying, withering smile from Niijima. They would simply become a barrier between his already bloodied hands and the atrocities they were yet to commit, a new layer of lacquer, but she had no way of knowing that. Or, he hoped she wouldn't.

It helped, though. The urge to shred the already marred and unsightly skin on his hands simmered down to something manageable. Something he could hide.

Though, perhaps it was arrogant of him to assume he could hide from Akira. To hide both the blood on his hands and the twisted reminder of it draped in grotesque scars on the skin. He was a fool if he thought Akira wouldn't notice.

They had only talked a few times, shared a couple absent pleasantries dressed with plastic smiles, before Akira had stared him into the ground with his infuriatingly blank expression.

“Why do you never take off your gloves?” The tone was bored, but loaded. Akira’s grey eyes lanced him to the spot, as if they could see right through him, the lies, and the gloves.

Infuriating. Akechi was furious; how dare this insignificant  _ gnat _ of a being dig into his life?

His anger was drowned in molten, imperfect plastic, lies rushed in their delivery despite how practiced they were. “Oh, it's for work,” he replied unconvincingly, nearly frowning at how clipped his tone came out. It was a lie he'd told many times before—why would  _ this _ time be any different?

Akira’s eyes never left him, not for a second. His expression betrayed nothing, neither suspicion or belief. Infuriating.

“Makes sense.” He replied simply after a long, long silence. The words indicated belief.

His eyes did not.

* * *

 

Akechi liked to think he both got better at reading Akira’s expressions and lying to him. Honestly, he didn't imagine he'd get as much practice at it as he did—it was strange how often Akira kept appearing in his day to day life. At the train station, with empty greetings and meaningless small talk. On the streets, with promises of future encounters he fully intended to break. In Leblanc, with warm cups of coffee that pulled truths from him he’d never share elsewhere.

Maybe it wasn't the coffee that was the root cause of that. Maybe it was the almost hypnotic stare Akira possessed, willing Akechi into comfort, wringing words from him with ease.

Akira was interesting like that. He was agonizingly easy to trust, and even more agonizingly skilled at prying confessions from him without even a lick of effort. All it took was a stare, the hint of a smile, and Akechi’s towering cement walls would crumble around him.

 

Some days, that felt nice.

 

 

 

 

Other days, it made him angry.

 

 

 

Akira was interesting like that. Akechi wasn't sure he liked it.

* * *

 

The first time Akira saw his hands, saw the marks covering nearly every inch, he didn't look surprised. He didn't fake concern like a few had before Akechi had taken to hiding them with a thin coat of gilded, golden lies. Akira simply saw, and moved on, without looking as if questions burned his tongue.

“Don't you care?” Akechi blurted out before he could stop himself, before he could reign in his surprise and drown it in gold.

Akira stared at him for a moment. Or through him, rather, before shrugging. “I understand,” was all he said.

The hands rubbing absently at the sleeves hiding his arms gave Akechi the answer he needed.

* * *

 

Akira’s presence was almost therapeutic; Akechi nearly drowned in the calm atmosphere he created, drank in the quiet comfort Akira gave. Yet guilt began worming its way into the comfort Akechi drew as November slowly crept to its end. It was hard to truly relax when he knew a new shade of red would stain his hands.

Still, Akira said nothing, even if Akechi was positive he noticed. Akira was like that; he'd notice, and likely have questions, but would never broach the topic and burst the precarious peace they'd built. He'd simply be there, simply be a soft touch at his shoulder or the gentlest hint of a smile.

 

Some days, Akechi appreciated that.

 

 

 

Other days, Akechi would notice how empty Akira’s smile was. As if he, too, was coating himself with a shimmering coat of precious, dazzling metal and pretending to be whole. Pretending to not be an empty, albeit pretty, shell.

Akechi only asked once.

“Are you all right?”

It felt an odd question for  _ him _ to be asking. Like he'd be any help.

Akira stared at him. And was silent for a moment, something Akechi had come to learn was simply Akira deciding whether or not to lie. An obvious tell, interesting for someone who lied so well.

“No,” he replied simply.

 

 

Akechi understood.

* * *

 

Akechi finally understood the peace Akira brought him when he saw tears staining the other’s face silver. Or, rather, he understood when he tasted salt on Akira’s lips and drank in the soft sigh. It was easy, then, to understand. Even if it tasted bittersweet, Akechi couldn't help his lips curling into a smile as his scarred, ugly hands brushed tears from Akira’s cheeks. Couldn't help the sense of calm he felt when Akira leaned into his touch instead of pulling away, instead of being repulsed as he should be.

Perhaps it was acceptance he sought for so long, and it was interesting Akira would be the one to give it to him. He'd never complain about that. Akechi was lucky.

* * *

He hated bathing his hands in blood once more, hated plastering them with silver and red and watching it mix disgustingly on his fingertips, but it was what he deserved. And it was what Akira deserved.

Akira was interesting like that; placing trust in a glimmering, rotten liar like Akechi. It was a shame he paid the price.

It was a shame Akechi needed a new pair of gloves. Even those were stained red this time, gilded with a silver that wasn't his and drowning out his golden lies.

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't originally gonna post this at all honestly because it's a bit of a mess, and a bit personal, but chrome, bagel, and scrods kind of encouraged me to do so by just, yknow, liking it i guess. thanks guys. dont think this one would have seen the light of day otherwise.


End file.
